


Phoenix Ashes

by stapling_pages



Series: Phoenix Ashes [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Albus Dumbledore is His Own Warning, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Found Family, Horcruxes, Life Debt, M/M, No character bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Redemption, Slow Build, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, playing with cliches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28515207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stapling_pages/pseuds/stapling_pages
Summary: (What is a phoenix? Give me a beautiful answer and, perhaps—)Tom Riddle cut his soul into pieces and wished for eternity. Harry Potter seeks only freedom.(A bird of paradise?)A soul slips its cage, a debt is incurred, and the world—shifts.(A beginning? An end?).rewrite/reboot ofIron and Bones
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Phoenix Ashes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088768
Comments: 22
Kudos: 258





	Phoenix Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> So, it’s been forever and a day since I last touched _Iron and Bones_ , and I feel I should give you all an explanation.
> 
> I’ve been sitting on this, picking at the idea of starting over and rewriting the parts I’ve written. The direction _Iron and Bones_ was originally planned to head for is no longer something that interests me, and I believe my understanding of these characters has evolved past the roles I had given them. But I still enjoy the premise of it—which leads me to rewriting it.
> 
> With the new year, I’ve decided to go forward with it and I hope that by the end of this year, I’ll have finished this (or at least, gotten a decent ways into it) but we’ll see.
> 
> Without further delay, enjoy.

Deep beneath the school’s underbelly Harry exhaled, his breath tumbling out as a fine mist. The path leading to the Chamber of Secrets was cold and damp. Pools of stagnate water, filled with tiny bones, lined the path like inverted hedges. He felt a bit like Hansel and Gretel, but Harry wouldn’t find a house made of sweets at the end of this trail.

Harry raised his wand higher, _lumos_ flickering. Behind him, Ron shoved Lockhart forward.

“Stop stalling!”

“Now see here—”

Ignore the racket, he inched his way around the corner. Harry almost wished he didn’t know about the basilisk. Then his heart wouldn’t be beating in his throat, strangling every breath he took, as he imagined terrible yellow eyes waiting for him beyond his next step.

His _lumos_ flared as Harry steeled himself. The edge of its reach caught on something that wasn’t stone or water. Harry froze.

“—really, boys, you should think—”

“Shut up,” Harry snapped as loud as he dared. For once in his life, Lockhart listened.

Swallowing, Harry crept further along the bend. His heart beat loudly in his ears, and under the noise, someone whimpered. He risked a quick look over his shoulder. Though his face had lost its color, Ron squared his shoulders and gave Harry a determined nod. Lockhart swayed like he was about to faint. Harry turned back to his task and pushed forward.

They held their breath as the light from Harry’s wand slid over the pale, waxy, and _empty_ snake skin. Harry sagged against the wall. He smothered a hysterical giggle.

With a gibbering moan, Lockhart sank to his knees. Why had they bothered to bring him along?

“Get up,” Ron said, prodding the man with his foot.

Lockhart stumbled to his feet—then he dived at Ron, knocking him to the ground. Harry rushed forward, but too late—Lockhart straightened up, panting, Ron’s wand clutched in his hand and a gleaming smile back on his face.

“The adventure ends here, boys!” he said. “I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two _tragically_ lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body.”

Ron pushed himself to his knees.

“Bastard!”

“Say good-bye to your memories!” Lockhart’s smile widened, twisting into a sneer that bared his perfect teeth. He raised Ron’s Spellotaped wand high over his head and yelled, _“Obliviate!”_

The wand gave out, exploding with the force of a small bomb.

Alarmed, Harry jerked back. Chunks of rock fell from the ceiling. He stumbled and tripped over the long tail of the snake skin as he dodged falling debris. In seconds, Harry was separated from Ron and Lockhart by a wall of stone. Dust clouded the air. His arm throbbed painfully. One of the falling rocks had torn his sleeve and scored a long cut on his arm, spanning from elbow to wrist. Blood was already starting to seep from the wound.

“Harry!” shouted Ron. “You alright?”

Waving away dust clouds, he coughed.

“Y-yeah, what about you?” The cut was starting to burn. Harry swallowed. “Try to clear a way through, alright? I’m gonna go on ahead and see if I can find Ginny!”

“Sure. Be careful!”

Cradling his arm, Harry left Ron to his task, following the snake skin deeper into the tunnel. The grating of shifting rock faded until the only noise he could hear was his footsteps and uneven breathing. Not for the first time, Harry wished his life could be normal without these ‘adventures’ that could so easily kill him or his friends. Stumbling around a final bend, Harry reached a smooth, dry wall.

Two large serpents were carved into it, facing each other as they reared back with fangs bared, their large eyes glistening in the weak light from his wand. The true entrance to the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry tried to gather himself, to build up his dwindling courage. He used a bloody hand to steady himself as he took deep breaths to calm his racing heart, head bent and eyes squeezed shut. He could do this. He could—he had to.

Above Harry’s head, the carvings shifted silently. Their eyes flickered from black stone to bright, jeweled red then back again. Once, twice, three times—glowing brighter each time before settling back into their dormant state.

With a fortifying breath, Harry straightened and stepped away.

_“Open,”_ he hissed.

A seam split the stone snakes apart and, on silent hinges, the door opened. Reluctant, Harry entered the chamber.

The air felt different here, nearly a living thing in its own right—heavy and watchful. Pillars stood at strange points instead of in straight lines, a labyrinth without walls. The serpents carved into the pillars appeared to move when his wasn’t looking, following him with red eyes. Harry hurried his pace. Drops of blood fell from his arm, leaving splatters across the stone floor.

Slowly, pulled along by an unseen forced, the blood moved. It seeped into thin channels, greedily stretched along them until the blood could no longer be seen by human eyes. The strangeness in the air shifted, shuddering to life. A faint, slow heartbeat, easily ignored.

Harry reached the point where the pillars ended. A stature of an ancient wizard towered above him, and at its base was Ginny. Heart in his throat, Harry sprinted to her. He dropped to his knees beside her, pushed aside an open, blank book, leaving a bloody smear across its pages, to press his fingers against her pulse. It was faint, but still steady—good.

“Come on,” he said, shaking her shoulders, “please wake up.” Her head lolled to one side.

“She won’t wake, Harry Potter.”

He flinched. Slowly, Harry looked over his shoulder.

A tall, thin teenager stepped out from behind a pillar. Dressed in an older style of school robes, body misty and transparent, colors swallowed up by deep shadows or washed out by the faint glow of his own body, he looked like a ghost. But there’s no mistaking who this was. Harry remembered those handsome features from February.

“You—Tom Riddle?”

Tom smiled.

“Yes.” He sauntered over.

“Listen,” Harry said. There were questions he should be asking, but the fingertips of his hand were starting to go numb and that couldn’t be good. “We have to get out of here. Can you hel—”

“There is no rush.” Tom took another step to loom over them. “Let’s talk, Harry Potter.”

The misty edges of Tom’s body were solidifying now, color seeping into him, though he didn’t seem to notice. His gaze sweep over them, eyes lingering on Harry’s wand, still clutched in his hand, before moving to Ginny. He opened his mouth to say something but froze. Harry followed his gaze to the bloody pages of Tom’s diary.

“Oh, sorry.”

“You’re bleeding.” Tom’s mouth twisted, curling like he wanted to start scolding Harry but quickly leveled into a tight, bloodless line. Blinking rapidly, he pressed the palm of his hand against a temple.

“Don’t worry about it.” He tried to hoist Ginny up without dropping his wand. A strange buzzing had started to fill the air, echoing in his teeth like a dull ache. Harry wanted to be gone before it reached its peak. “Can you help me get Ginny out of here? We need to leave before the basilisk shows up.” Tom had to know a spell or two that could help.

But maybe Harry _couldn’t_ count on him for help. What little color that had returned to Tom’s face was gone, replaced by clammy white. He panted unevenly, as if the air was too thin and his lungs couldn’t hold a full breath.

“What?” Tom swallowed, his eyes loosing focus. “Evren won’t—they won’t—”

Alarm grew in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

“Tom? What’s wrong?”

Whatever Tom might have said was cut off by a strangled whine. Fingers dug into his scalp and pulled at his hair as he folded in on himself, choking on gasping breaths. The edges of his body blurred, fading back into mist—but instead of the brilliant white it had been before, the mist was a dark, muted violet. It overtook the rest of Tom’s body until nothing remained but a mass of violet mist.

Hand shaking, Harry raised his wand. He didn’t know what he could do against this strange turn of events or if it would hurt him, but Harry wasn’t going to make it easy for the thing, if it tried.

“T-Tom?”

The mist moved, swirling lazily. It picked up speed, faster and faster, as it pulled itself into a dense sphere. Packed tightly together like this, the mass looked pearlescent. The sphere shrank, bit by bit, until it was about half as big as Harry was tall.

Then, quite suddenly, the swirling stopped. The sphere shivered. Before Harry could do more than blink, the sphere of mist was gone and in its place—

“Tom!”

But the Tom curled up and shivering on the ground wasn’t the same Tom that had turned into mist. He looked _so young!_ Tiny in a way Harry had trouble wrapping his head around.

“Hey,” he inched forward, reaching out a trembling hand to shake the boy’s shoulder, “are you okay?”

Muscles twitched under his hand. Blearily, Tom lifted his head. His face was long and thin, cheeks hollow in a way that spoke of constant hunger. The skin under his eyes was discolored, bluish where it was too thin to hide veins, and bruised. His teeth chattered. Uncurling a bit more, Tom looked around like he didn’t remember where they were.

Harry tightened his hold on Tom’s shoulder. He stared at Harry, blinked then slowly shook his head.

“I’m fine,” said Tom, pulling away. Shivering and swaying, he forced himself to his feet. He was still wearing old-fashioned school robe but these were threadbare, elbows worn shiny and frayed at the collar and cuffs. The top button was missing. Tom rested a cold— _freezing_ —hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s get out a here, shall we? I’ll need to borrow your wand for a bit.”

With a wordless nod, Harry handed him his wand.

Tom let go of his shoulder. A flick of his wrist turned the torn remains of Harry’s sleeve into a bandage that he then guided to wrap tightly around Harry’s forearm.

“That should hold for now.”

Another flick had Ginny rising off Harry’s lap. Harry scrambled to his feet. The room tilted, going fuzzy. Screwing his eyes shut, Harry swallowed back a greasy wave of nausea. A shoulder carefully bumped into his. Tom raised an eyebrow.

“Okay.” Harry swallowed again. “Okay. Let’s—what about your diary?”

A flicker of something dark passed over Tom’s face as he stared down at the book.

“It’s just a book.”

Flicking his wrist, Tom marched off with Ginny in tow. Harry looked over the chamber one last time, lingering over Tom’s diary. If Tom was sure…

In silence, they left the chamber. Back at the cave-in, Ron had managed to clean a small passageway through the rocks. But to reach it, they’d have to climb the debris.

“Ron!”

There was scuffling on the other side.

“Harry?” Ron yelled. “You alright? Is Ginny okay?”

“Yeah, she—she hasn’t woken up though. We’re gonna pass her through first, okay? Let me know when you’re ready!”

Tom guided Ginny up to the opening.

“Alright!” Ron stuck his head through. “Ready!” He grabbed his sister’s ankles. Carefully, they maneuvered her through. Harry held his breath as her bright hair disappeared to the other side, then— “We’re clear!” He sagged against Tom.

Slowly, inch by inch, they climbed their way up to the opening. Harry’s arm throbbed. Tom’s shivering had worsened, and a clammy sheen of sweat coated his skin. More than once, he started to drift off and would have fallen if Harry hadn’t seized hold of his robes. Climbing down the other side proved to be just as taxing.

Ron frowned at them, eyeing Tom with uncertainty. Before he could ask, Lockhart cut in.

“Hello! Who’re you?” Lockhart asked brightly. “Do you live down here?”

Harry stared then turned to Ron.

“His _obliviate_ didn’t just cause a cave-in—it erased his memories too.” He shrugged. “Not to be that guy,” Ron turned to Tom, “but who are you?”

“Tom Riddle.”

“Wait, as in the diary Riddle?” Ron stared at him like he’d grown another head. “How’d you get out? And aren’t you supposed to be a sixth year or something?”

Tom shook his head, ignoring the questions. He raised Harry’s wand to recast the levitation charm on Ginny, but swayed violently before he could get past the first syllable. Harry and Ron grabbed his arms just as his knees gave way.

“Let’s get to the infirmary,” said Harry.

“Yeah.” Ron slung Tom’s arm over his shoulders, taking most of his weight and ignoring his slurred protests. “Oi, Lockhart—be useful and carry my sister.”

Ron didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he half-carried Tom back toward the pipe-slide. Harry hurried after him, Lockhart scrambling loudly to catch up.

They reached the slide but now had another problem. How were they going to get back up? There was no way they could climb the slide. Harry frowned.

“There has to be a way up.”

Next to where the slide ended was a smooth, blank wall, completely at odds with the rough edges of the rest of the cave. Harry stood in front of it, looking for little snake carvings or some kind of clue. But the wall remained blank.

“You used parseltongue to open the sink—maybe try calling for stairs or something?”

Nodding, Harry screwed his eyes shut. He imagined a snake was before him. What to ask for? Stairs—but Tom didn’t look like he’d manage to climb all those steps and Harry didn’t trust Lockhart not to drop Ginny. So maybe—

_“Lift.”_

The stone groan. Harry opened his eyes. The wall split open, revealing a tiny room lit by eerie, green crystals.

They filed into the elevator, the door closing behind them with a groan. A hissed command and they were off, heading back to the surface.

.

He wanted to curl up in a warm bed, bury himself in fine blankets and plush pillows, and sleep for a year—but there’s work to be done. If only he would stop _shivering._

Tom had a fair idea of what caused his body temperature to drop. He had never experienced magic depletion before, but he knew the symptoms. Decreased core temperature, joint pain, shortness of breath, dizziness, fatigue, difficulty casting even simple spells, fainting. Potential death, if the sufferer kept pushing.

He pulled the thick blanket the matron had given him tighter around himself. The simple wool was soft, squishy, and smelled like vanilla candles. Healer Fitzgerald had kept everything smelling like disinfectant and lemons. The blankets he preferred had been thin and scratchy, and Tom had needed to resort to heating charms whenever he spent the night in the infirmary. Breathing deeply, Tom buried his face in the soft fabric, ignoring the growing sting in his eyes.

He really was free.

What did it matter, that he’d soon be under Dumbledore’s thumb once more—that he was a child again? Tom was out of that fucking book! Free to take advantage of Voldemort’s mistakes, and build _himself_ an empire atop the remains of the ‘Dark Lord’s.’ He would never again be the _spare_ for another’s ambitions.

The door slammed open and two professors stormed in, robes billowing behind them, expressions closed. And so it began. Potter and the Weasley boy jumped to their feet. They turned to the stern woman.

“Profes—”

_“Potter!”_ The man loomed over them, sneering. Greasy hair, hooked nose, skeletal—Snape, then. “You egotistical fool, what part of ‘return to your dormitories and _stay there’_ did you fail to understand?” Potter opened his mouth to defend himself, but Snape had only just begun. “Oh, how _foolish_ of me to forget—the rules don’t apply to Saint Potter! Did you enjoy your little _adventure,_ you stupid little brat? Just as arrogant and imbecilic as your father.”

The woman—McGonagall—frowned, but said nothing. Slowly, Tom lowered the blanket, eyes narrowing. She was their Head of House, surely she didn’t intend to let Snape continue?

Potter’s jaw trembled. Weasley’s cheeks burned red. They shared a glance and inched closer together.

“Flaunting rules left and right, demanding special treatment. Did you even consider what might happen before you ran off? Did you _think at all?_ No, no, of course—”

“And where were you during this?” He’d spoken without thought, voice colder than it should be for the frightened first year he appeared to be, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

Even at his worst, Dumbledore had never laid into him with such bare-faced malice, not even during the few detentions Tom had served under his watch—but then, Dumbledore preferred to condemn from on high. Picking at your students’ bleeding wounds… Such behavior wasn’t befitting of a professor, yet McGonagall was just _allowing it,_ as if this was an acceptable way to discipline students.

They didn’t jump, but it was a near thing. McGonagall tensed and Snape drew his shoulders back then, as one, they turned. Their faces didn’t soften, instead growing darker. So, they’re intelligent enough to know when they were dealing with someone dangerous, but stupid enough to humiliate children who were only trying to make up for _their_ incompetence. How quaint.

Weasley took advantage of their distraction to bump shoulders with Potter, coaxing him out of whatever rabbit hole he’d fallen into during Snape’s tirade.

Snape’s mouth twisted. He was trying for cold neutrality, but Tom had dealt with enough slytherins who despised him to know what that looked like even through the finest of masks. Although, what could this man possibly have against Tom Riddle? That name should have died the second Voldemort could afford it.

“And who, exactly, are you?” Snape asked, though it was clear he already knew the answer. The beginnings of a sneer crept onto his face.

Tom hid his frown behind the edge of his blanket. _This_ was the current Head of Slytherin? How disgraceful. For all his flaws, Slughorn would never display such transparent hostility to another professor, much less a student.

He straightened up, letting the blanket pool around him, and slipped into the chilly politeness his peers had learned to dread.

“I am Tom Riddle.” He smiled like he wanted to grimace, giving Snape and McGonagall an onceover. “And you are?”

Puffing up like one of Abraxas’s beloved peacocks, Snape stomped over to loom above him, lips curled back in a snarl, trying to convey a wordless threat. But Tom had cut his teeth playing with people who could actually afford to follow through on promised violence, and Severus Snape was little more than a worm pretending to be a viper. Disappointing, really.

Behind him, McGonagall fingered her wand. What, exactly, were they expecting from him? Tom wasn’t about to give up his cover story just to curse them. Honestly, what kind of imbecile did they take him for— _Dolohov?_

But before he could begin hunting them in earnest, the hospital wing doors flew open with a loud bang. A gaggle of redheads poured through the doors, sweeping past Tom and the professors. A stout woman pulled Potter and the Weasley boy into her arms. Choking back sobs, she buried her face in her son’s hair. She pressed a kiss to his forehead before releasing him and turning her full attention to Potter.

“Thank you,” she said in a wet voice. She cupped Potter’s cheeks. “My daughter—my Ginny— _thank you.”_ She pulled Potter into another hug, completely oblivious to the tense line of his shoulders or the pleading look he gave his friend.

Tom stared. His eagerness to sink his teeth into Snape and McGonagall faded, slipping under the tattered remains of his Occlumency. He could play another time.

The chair beside his bed creaked as Albus Dumbledore sat down. He folded his hands in his lap and waited.

Tom didn’t turned away from the spectacle of Potter’s discomfort. The rest of the horde surrounded him and the Weasley matron, patting his shoulders and head. With each touch, Potter’s tension ratcheted higher. Would he snap like rotted wood if things continued? Or would he rebound like a bowstring?

The youngest Weasley boy scented the same trouble Tom could see beginning to unfold and quickly distracted his family by pointing out the bed occupied by his still unconscious sister. As one, the horde abandoned Potter to his friend’s care. Whispering to each other, the two boys sat on the bed next to one of the Petrified students—Granger, if Tom remember correctly.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

Feeling unusually childish, Tom continued to ignore him, wrapping the wool blanket around his shoulders again and burrowing into its warmth. Tea sounded lovely, right about then.

“Tom.”

“Professor.” He glanced at Dumbledore then quickly looked away.

Fifty years had passed.

Auburn hair had faded to snowy white, grown long where it’d once been kept short. Stress and time lined Dumbledore’s face with deep wrinkles. Plain teaching robes replaced by bright, whimsical robes that bothered Tom more than they should have. The only constant was that damned twinkle in his eyes and the condemnation in his expression. Tom ignored that that too had faded, gentled into something he couldn’t name.

Fifty years… Such an easily ignored thing when there wasn’t anything around to shove the truth of it into his face.

Tom swallowed roughly. Something cold settled in his gut. Who of his Knights remained, and would any of them think to obey him? Would they kneel at the behest of a mere child? What a foolish question—of course not.

All that time, all that effort— _wasted._

Bitterness swelling, Tom laughed tonelessly. “Well, how have I damned myself this time, Professor?”

“Shall we begin the list with trusting incomplete information?” He paused. “Or would you prefer to focus on the broader strokes?”

Tom’s neck cracked as he whipped his head up to glare at Dumbledore.

_“Excuse me?”_

Unmoved by the sudden spike of Tom’s temper, Dumbledore stared him down coolly. Tom’s jaw trembled. Something in Dumbledore’s expression cracked, spilling over into what would have been sympathy if it was anyone else.

“Why on Earth did you assume Hogwarts would have complete information on Horcruxes?”

His breath stuttered in his lungs. No. No, no, _no!_ Dumbledore couldn’t know—he _couldn’t._ Yet, there were no signs that the old man was lying. Tom bit his tongue to hold back a snarl. How did he find out? Slughorn? But no, no Slughorn hated Dumbledore—he wouldn’t tell him anything. So how?

“I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he gritted out.

“I see.” Dumbledore stroked his bread. “Then, how did you end up like this?”

“An experiment with divination and soul magic gone wrong.”

Tilting his head, Dumbledore thought it over then nodded. He smiled.

“A likelier excuse than I thought it’d be.”

Glacial rage crushed Tom’s response under its weight. _How dare he!_ How dare this entitled bastard mock _him!_ Tom had done what every text told him was impossible, and yet this coward still dared—

The glass on the bedside table cracked loudly as the water in it suddenly froze. They stared at it. A chunk of glass split further, falling away and tumbling to the stone floor. It shattered.

Dumbledore frowned.

“Are you feeling alright? Your temper is shakier than normal.”

“I’m fine,” Tom said, stiffly.

“Of course, of course.” He stood. “Well, get some rest. You’ve quite the time ahead of you.” Dumbledore clasped Tom’s shoulder, grip tightening as he leaned down. In a soft voice, he said, “I’d advice spending some time considering the future you truly want and not blindly following the path laid down before you by Voldemort. You’ll find he’s become remarkably short-sighted.”

A final pat on the shoulder and Dumbledore was off to wring the details of their ‘adventure’ out of Potter and Weasley.

Tom fumed silently. _Him,_ short-sighted? If he was so short-sighted, Tom would’ve been dead before his eight birthday! Honestly. Who did Dumbledore think he was? Short-sighted…

He threw himself down, twisting to bury his face against the bed’s thin pillow. Closing his eyes, Tom slowed his breathing as he tried to slip into a meditative state. His Occlumency barriers needed repair if he was going to deal with Dumbledore again for any length of time. Best to get a head start on them.

Tom returned to himself hours later.

The hospital wing had gone dark, the visitors shooed away and the matron absent. Thin moonlight flittered in through the windows. Slowly, he rose, pushing away the layers of blankets he’d gained during his meditation. Glancing down, he froze. His school robes had been replaced by pale blue, glittering violet, and dove grey plaid flannel pajamas. Tom’s eye twitched—Dumbledore’s work. And he’d been completely unaware of it.

Breathing through his alarm, Tom left the cot. He had to make sure Ginny kept her mouth shut.

Halfway there, he paused as he realized Potter was still there—and so was his wand. Grasping it, Tom shivered at the rush of warmth. Such a curious thing…

Tom stopped next to his target and smiled disdainfully, raising the wand to tap it against his cheek.

How should he handle this? Wake her and make certain she knew her nightmare had only just begun? Let her sleep on, dreaming of her ‘heroic prince’ rescuing her and her fairytale ending, completely unaware of the danger? Instant gratification or a slow burn?

Spinning the wand through his fingers and ignoring the spark of silver and gold it created, he mulled over the possibilities. Down in the Chamber, her tears had quickly become annoying as he waited for the ritual to drain enough so that she’d _finally shut up._ Seeing them again so soon probably wouldn’t be as amusing as Tom pictured it being.

And her panic would alert Dumbledore to Tom’s meddling. Best let her believe she was safe—for now.

“Sorry, Ginny dear,” he said, smiling sweetly as he leveled the wand with her chest. “It’s nothing personal.”


End file.
